The boy sits in the apple tree,
cradled against two forking branches,
and immerses himself in the Count of Monte Cristo.
As yet no one knows that Edmond Dantès
will later on become a designer
and bring home treasures ‘made in China’.
Visible though is how he and his child
are raking up grass in the same garden.
And how the same swallows soar up out of nothing,
dart back and forth like swift-spoken lines
and vanish under the selfsame eave.
But the boy still goes on reading his Dumas,
hid from the world by apple blossom.